In which an alcoholic gives suboptimal advice to our young prince in his continuing quest to find his muse.

***

I shall return forthwith unto my tale.
And so our prince had tried only to fail
To find the flame-kissed muse he so desired.
He knew not what came next so had inquired
Of one he knew with some experience:
A painter who was quite the talent once
Until his love of drink became abuse.
His work of most repute was that of Zeus
Off lusting after Metis – some such thing
His voice demonic told of him to sing
Upon the canvas (none have yet deduced
How any of this works and much reduced
Are those great works by trying to reveal
The force of creativity we feel
And what about it garners such appeal).
Upon this picture’s back he was to climb
With purest labour to the peak sublime.
But often will success bring atrophy,
For with success a man will feel him free;
As when a diatonic melody
Will break into chromatic realms beyond
And blur familiar paths that man is fond,
Thus leaving one to tread the way alone -
No other there to act the chaperone.
And thus the frozen soul cannot escape
This prison masked as freedom lacking shape.
He made an invocation to his muse -
Her silence, peradventure, to bemuse,
But thought he much abandoned and betrayed -
A wayward child that never should have strayed.
Thus having nowhere left to rise above,
He made below, developing a love
Of all that flows to make the whistle wet.
A sure path to oblivion and yet
He thought it was a substitute for she
And lost his wits in drunken reverie.
So then this ill advice he gave with glee:
To drink and merry make his sole device
For powering the soul with easy vice.
The boy had not the knowledge to contend
Nor true experience with to defend
Against the clouded words he had been told
So nothing could prevent him acting bold
And instigating what shall now unfold.